


Queer (Or, An Eye for an Eye)

by MaddyHughes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Fluff, M/M, Netflix and Chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:39:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: Where does Hannibal go, when he disappears?





	Queer (Or, An Eye for an Eye)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sualeonessa](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sualeonessa), [Nerve_Itch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerve_Itch/gifts).



At first, Will thinks that Hannibal is off killing someone.

Even though in theory killing jeopardises their freedom, Will knows from experience that if Hannibal refrains from murder for too long, he seeks other outlets for his energy. Sometimes it’s cooking or elaborate art, and that’s fine; but sometimes, more and more often, it’s Will itself. Mind games, sex games, that thing he does with a knife; long conversations that feel more and more like a trap. And while all of that is lots of fun and exactly what Will signed up for when he fell in love with Hannibal Lecter, sometimes he just gets tired. 

So he doesn’t say anything when Hannibal disappears for a few hours and then comes back happy, relaxed and playful. He enjoys Hannibal’s good mood, and trusts him to be discreet about his recreational murder.

Except he does notice that Hannibal is using more and more avocado in his cooking. Sometimes it’s a garnish, sometimes it’s incorporated into the dish. Sometimes both. _Odd_ , he thinks. _Maybe they’re in season_. But he likes avocado okay, certainly better than stag beetles or ortolans or half of a human being’s butt, so he doesn’t say anything.

Once, Hannibal and he are sitting together, both reading, and he feels the weight of Hannibal’s eyes on him. He waits, knows he’s still being watched, looks up from his book and says, ‘What?’

‘Have you ever considered wearing eyeliner?’

‘What? _No_.’

‘How about a little scarf around your neck?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ Hannibal goes back to his journal.

Will worries about it. He’s in a relationship with a man, but he’s not camp. He’s never been camp. Is he supposed to be camp? Is that what Hannibal wants, suddenly?

He glowers and makes sure he wears his most flannelly flannel shirt for the next few days. And a fishing vest. Camping style, not camp.

The final straw is when he walks in on Hannibal standing in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, with only the front little bit of his shirt tucked into his trousers, the rest hanging loose. As soon as he sees Will, he starts and looks furtive.

‘What are you looking so guilty about?’ Will says, putting his arms around Hannibal’s waist and gazing at them both in the mirror.

‘Merely trying out a new look. It’s called a French tuck.’

‘A French tuck. Is that what they call it when you catch your shirttail in your fly by mistake when you zip up after a piss?’

‘It’s a casual style that emphasizes the waist and creates a longer line.’

‘Casual is not you,’ says Will. ‘The light of casual won’t reach you for a million years. Besides…I like the French untuck better.’ And he pulls Hannibal’s shirt out of his waistband and slides his hands underneath to warm skin.

Later, when they’re both sweaty, sated and happy, he tucks himself under Hannibal’s arm, kisses the side of his smooth cheek, and risks the question. ‘Where have you been disappearing to, lately?’

‘Disappearing?’

‘That fake innocent act worked on Jack Crawford. Not me.’

‘Well. I… That is, I…’

Will is not used to Hannibal squirming. He props himself up on his elbow and looks directly in his face.

‘It’s best if I show you,’ says Hannibal. He gets up, leaves the room, comes back, still naked, holding his iPad. Will sits up against the pillows, readying himself for the peculiar mixture of horror, excitement, and pure aesthetic appreciation that comes from witnessing one of Hannibal’s murder scenes.

But when Hannibal sits close beside him and swipes on the iPad, it’s not showing blood and viscera and artfully-butchered corpses.

It’s showing Netflix.

‘I’ve been bingeing,’ confesses Hannibal, and to Will Graham’s utter surprise (but then again, it’s not a surprise at all, how can anything Hannibal Lecter does be a surprise), he presses play.

‘ _Queer Eye_?’ says Will.

‘Have you watched it? It’s wonderful.’

‘I’m not into fashion. As you know.’

‘It’s not about fashion. It’s about style. But more than that: it’s about empathy.’

Something catches Will’s eye: a young man with curly hair, eyeliner, a little scarf around his neck. Cutting into an avocado. He looks like Will, except clean-shaven. Younger. Much more chirpy. Like he probably never wore a fishing vest in his life.

‘Oh my God,’ he says.

‘Just watch it,’ says Hannibal. ‘You’ll like it.’ He puts his arm around Will and settles him against his chest.

Will shrugs, and curls in to watch. At least it’s bound to be safer than that thing that Hannibal does with the knife.

When it's over, he's surprised to find that he did like it. He wipes tears from his eyes and folds his hand into Hannibal's.

'What do you think they'd make of us? All the cannibalism, for example? I can't see Karamo condoning that.'

'I think Antoni would like it.'

'Tan would throw out all my clothes.'

'There's nothing to improve,' says Hannibal. 'I would never change a thing.' He kisses the top of Will's head, on the curls untamed by anyone's scissors and pomade.

'Me neither,' says Will. And presses 'play' on the next episode.

 

 

 


End file.
